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25
Still burning, confused, and passionate from her night with David, Tory found a parking place two blocks from the Hotel. It was just beginning to rain, and she held a newspaper open over her head as she ran through the early morning twilight. She saw the National Guard checkpoint ahead and started to fish out her I.D. At that moment a pair of National Guard MP’s in rumpled fatigues, their white helmets scratched and dirty, trod by. Judging by their dingy boots and footsore slog, they’d probably been on duty nonstop for days. They both saluted. “Morning, Ma’am,” one said. “You with the Regulars inside?”
Lowering the newspaper, she returned the salute. “Yes, I am. But I’m not playing cop today. Computer jockey.”
“Oh,” they said, impressed.
“I see those boots,” she joked; “about due for retread.”
“You said it, Ma’am.” “You got that right, Ma’am.”
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Virginia, Ma’am. He’s from Bristol. I’m from Roanoke.”
“Tourists in Washington.”
“Right. My mom runs a little store back home, and she needs me to help. Ol’ Snuffy here, he’s got three kids and a delivery route.”
The other added: “We can’t wait to go back home.”
The first added: “Nobody ever asked us our opinion. Hell, we’re just privates, Ma’am. We swore to uphold the real Constitution, not any new phony one.”
“I hear you guys,” Tory said.
“You have a nice day now,” the one said.
“Be careful, alone out here like this,” the other said.
“With you guys to watch the store,” she shouted after them, “I’m not afraid!” But she feared for all the Snuffys out there. They grinned, waved, and lumbered off along the endless twirls of concertina wire, rifles slung.
As she neared the MP check point, a dark humvee pulled up, and three burly young men with gym bags got out. She looked the other way, pretended not to see them. They pretended not to see her, and no salutes were exchanged. Football player big, they trudged through the checkpoint with a brief show of ID. Tory gave it a moment, then followed. As she signed in, she noted their unit on the lines in the sign-in log above her own: 3045th MI. The two soldiers at the booth were female. She asked superciliously: “Who are the hunks?”
The two women exchanged glances. One said: “Ma’am, excuse me, but them boys got somethin’ downright dead cold by they hearts, if you know what I mean.” The other one said: “I’m married, but even if I weren’t they just got this look that, I dunno, you look in they eyes, you be scared.”
Tory entered the lobby and tossed aside her wet newspaper. She had made it on time. Lots of noise came from the Assembly Hall that stuck out from the three towers the way the U.N. General Assembly Hall stuck out from its single tower in New York. The scene she encountered was disturbing and disgusting. Somebody kept banging a gavel, to no avail. There was a pounding of fists on tables, a raucous noise and counter-noise, as if the delegates were animals. These were the brilliant minds, Tory thought, who claimed they could do better than Washington and Madison and Hamilton and Franklin in Philadelphia during the long hot summer of 1787 (Jefferson being in Paris as U.S. Ambassador to France, but about to return and do his part by penning the Bill of Rights). The Second Constitutional Convention was fast becoming a laughing stock and an object of derision across the country;the 900th amendment was being introduced—something about sending all immigrants of the past 25 years back to their countries of origin, and closing the borders permanently. The unarmed private security guards with limited authority, hired to maintain order in CON2, had already lost control as shoes and empty, greasy paper lunch sacks flew through the air. Two delegates argued on the verge of a fist-fight; since the delegates had complete legal immunity, they could not be arrested. In one corner stood a group loudly and constantly yelling things from the Bible; in another stood Hare Krishnas, chanting and ringing bells. Each group had been invited there by one or more delegates, and could not be removed for some technical reason. In the hall outside, in the gray area between private security’s jurisdiction and General Montclair’s, two drunks lolled on the floor, one in a pool of reddish-clear wine vomit. Trash was strewn everywhere. Tory shook her head and took the elevator downstairs, where the heavy CloudMaster machine newly assigned to the Atlantic had been mounted on a concrete base.
Jet met her there, glad to see a friend. “Ma’am,” Jet said, “there are more and more strange rumors flying around. There’s been another murder, this one an OCP Congressman from Samoa.” Tory was sick of the war of words, sick of the twisting of words, sick of the sickness America had borne for so long, and wanted only to fly away to a tropic island with this wonderful new man in her life, David Gordon. For a moment, assaulted by the bedlam that confronted her, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to regress a few hours. There was David, in her bed, looking sleepy and vulnerable, like a beautiful tiger, powerful but innocent. Her heart melted as she clung to the image, wanting to possess him, to surrender to him and conquer him all in one passionate embrace. The memory of last night rose in her like the smell of rose petals in a summer rain. If he wanted to be with her again, she was ready.
Colonel Bentyne stopped by. She’d only met him a few times. He was a chunky, red-faced man with an odd smile that looked uncomfortable. He wore thick glasses, and his starchy fatigues looked too big on him. He also had tiny sores around his lips, which he’d treated with a glossy cream of some kind, Army-issue, generic, gleaming yellow. By contrast, his teeth were nice and white; hand him that much. “How are you, Breen?”
“Fine, Sir.” She had to remember that this man was going to write her review for the CON2 period, and it would stay in her file forever, and one point less than a perfect score was a negative signal to some future promotion board not to advance her. After shaking his hand, she secretly wiped her hand on her pants. “It’s the best thing,” he was saying. “Get everybody consolidated here. You’ll like it here. It’s a very exciting time, and it’s an interesting place to be.”
“It sure is, Sir,” she said. “It’s an historic moment.”
“Staff meeting at five this evening, my suite on the 36th Floor. You’ll get to meet Colonel Bronf, the Chief of Staff. General Montclair might even poke his head in.”
“Yessir, I’ll mark it on my calendar.”
“Very good. We’re staffing up here, and I expect you’ll be supervising about twenty people for me. Big shop. Combined Admin, Data Processing, Medical Support Services, you name it.” He noted her corps insignia on her lapels and winked. “Just the job for an MP officer, eh?”
“Yessir. I feel right at home.” After he left, Tory went to the office canteen and washed her hands and face in the little corner convenience sink.
Jet nudged her. Jet had that pixie smile, with slight overbite, and a twinkle in the eyes. She held up a big cookie with chocolate frosting and sugar sprinkles. “Ib’s favorite,” she told Tory. “I just thought you might need something sweet and gooey.”
Tory snatched the cookie. “Do I ever. Gimme that! Is there any coffee here?”
“I made you a pot. Looked like you’d need that too.”
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